


My heart

by dmdiane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married mystrade, Mycroft is the best husband, in a good way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:24:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmdiane/pseuds/dmdiane
Summary: A brief glimpse of Greg dealing with work and loss with Mycroft's love and care. A lot of sad, but a lot of love, too.





	My heart

Being DCI means being late to the crime scene every time. Greg Lestrade parks his BMW in the middle of the cordoned-off street, still a good block from the scene. The usual array of emergency responder vehicles are here and he climbs from the car with a stretch. Too long in the office chair this morning for sure. He slides his hands into his pockets thinking about what he needs to observe for Donovan’s upcoming promotion dossier. She’s been acting DI for six months. He knew she’d be good at the job and he worried about the steel edge of her manner. Her heretofore issues with authority made climbing through ranks a challenge. It’s not like a DI doesn’t have to answer to a lot of somebodies. He’s delighted that having her own team is enough to melt the harshness away. He doesn’t miss crime scene work like he thought he would. He gets out to a scene once or twice a month, and more often steps in on interrogation or following up with other agencies.

Today Sally’s team has one body and some history, the initial assessment is domestic dispute murder. Not complicated, but serious and requiring thorough work all the same. No perp at the scene. A good opportunity to see how Sally supervises staff.

He strolls in the watery winter sunlight. He’s within a half block when the two constables notice him and come to attention, one of them calling something on his radio. He grins. Another oddness of being DCI is being announced whenever he arrives on a scene. As if he wasn’t supervising these scenes himself just a year ago. But he remembers the extra frisson of Gregson’s arrival on one of his scenes, like having one of your parents show up at a party. He just never thought this’d be him, ever.

“Boss.” Donovan greets him on the curb. “Anderson’s on his way. That’s the sister over there. She called it in.” She waves at a young woman curled sobbing over her knees on the hood of a patrol car. A constable stands beside her. “According to the sister, there’s a kid missing. No sign of a perp. But the good money is on the ex-husband.”

Lestrade nods. “I’m going to call Harkins and Perdia to look for him, then. Let’s see what we’ve got.” A killer running around with a kid is an emergency. Even if it’s his own kid.

He makes his call while Donovan precedes him into the house. Lovely place. Modest, but well kept. That makes the signs of disturbance clearer than handwriting. The body of a young woman lies near the fireplace. Cause of death isn’t as obvious as it could be, Greg puts gloves on and kneels to peer more closely the victim’s face. She can’t have been more than twenty-five. He allows himself one quick look over the body. He guesses strangulation or head injury. Clearly, both happened. Both can be unexpectedly fatal.

Donovan gives him a rundown of what they know about previous reports of violence between the couple. Greg listens, absorbs the general lack of a male presence in the room. Moved out, maybe? Separated. He points this out to Donovan and motions to the back of the house, curious the bedrooms will tell them. The house isn’t still enough. The hair rises on the back of his neck. He hears Chris Harkins arrive.

Two of the bedroom doors are open, the bathroom too, all empty and undisturbed. Whatever happened didn’t make it back here. He pushes open the one door that’s closed and hears a faint intake breath that isn’t his. Fuck. He quenches his reflex to declare himself. His intuition prickles sharply. This is obviously a guest room, with the unlived-in quality of rare occupancy. Closet? He holds his breath. He hears another faint intake of air. Under the bed. Fuck. Harkins is in the hallway now and Greg waves him over without taking his eyes from the bed.

“Cover me.” He whispers. “Police.” He says to the empty room. Not loud. “Come on out.”

A whimper.

What the hell, he thinks, life’s short. He drops to his knees and looks under the bed. A pair of green hazel eyes stare from behind sheaves of wheat colored curls. “Heya, chit.” He murmurs.

Blink.

Greg flattens himself to the floor. “D’you think I could come under there and talk to you for a bit?”

The nod is very slight. Greg peels his gloves off, for which he’s sure there will be hell to pay. He slowly inches his head and a shoulder under the bed frame, wondering if he’ll actually fit. He hasn't been under a bed in who knows how long. He stops, checks her expression. Still open. From the house, he hears Donovan calling to him they have another body, male, late twenties. He watches the small face beside him for a reaction and sees a flicker of fear flare in her gaze. Crime scenes are not for kids, but it’s possible this one saw and heard much worse tonight. He inches his way very slowly towards the little girl keeping his eyes on her and wishing he’d thought to take off his damn coat.

“I'm Greg. What’s your name?” He asks.

Blink.

“I’m fifty-three years old. That’s a lot. How old are you?”

A small hand comes up with all its fingers spread wide.

“You’re five?”

Nod.

“Today has been pretty scary.” Greg offers. “I wish I could make it better. But I can’t. If you come with me, though, I will make sure you don’t get hurt. Okay?”

A nod.

Greg extends his hand to where hers rests on the carpet between them. He taps on the back of her pinky finger very softly. “One, two, buckle my shoe.” He whispers. That gets him a smile. “Hold my hand?”

The silky little fingers slip into his and throttle his heart. He clasps his hand around hers and smiles. “That’s my girl. Come on.”

Together they slip from under the bed and the little one climbs into Greg’s arms and clings. He staggers to his feet, an arm around her.

“You tuck your face right here inside my coat and close your eyes. Alright?” He wraps his overcoat around her. “And no peeking until I say, love.” He rests his free hand on her curls and strides to where Harkins has been watching from the door. “Call social services.”

“Already done.” Harkins gives him a ruefully admiring smile. “The sister says they have a five-year-old daughter named Darcey. Family photos in the hallway pretty much confirm the ID’s here. If you two go out the kitchen door, you can avoid all the mess.”

“You’re good at your job, son.” Greg grins at him.

“As are you, man.” Harkins shakes his head. “The best.”

Greg rolls his eyes at that and carries his bundle of little girl out through the kitchen garden and around the house. He crosses the street and sinks to the steps of a brownstone still hugging the kid in his arms. The flutter of curls under his chin and moist puffs of breath on his collarbone cause a visceral flashback that puts a choke hold on his diaphragm. He’s transported back in time, holding Lucas close before bed. The sun tops the row houses and hits his face, he didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes. He rubs up and down the small back and looks down, pulls his coat back to see the small face, thankfully unfamiliar, and he smiles. “Excellent job, chit.”

The pair of green hazel eyes gazing up at him are stunned and wide.

“Remember I told you my name is Greg? Are you Darcy?”

Darcy Hull looks relieved to nod vigorously.  

“Are you hurt?” Greg turns her carefully, still on his knees, to face him, facing squarely away from her house.

“No.” Darcy’s voice is surprisingly low and gravelly.

“Alright, then. Your Aunt is here talking with one of the constables. When she’s done, we’ll go get her. Good?”

Darcy nods, her hand at her mouth, she chews on the edge of her thumb. Greg can see over her head as Donovan stands down the second team on the scene; must be the perp in the garage. The scene slows to a routine pace; no one to look for.

By noon, social services is with the kid, who seems to have seen everything but isn’t talking. The stunned expression on the kid’s face is startlingly reminiscent of Mycroft’s at Sherrinford. Greg leaves the scene to his DI’s and drives to his office to get a head start on the paperwork. The tightness in his chest that began when he found green hazel eyes blinking back at him from under the bed doesn’t relent. By mid-afternoon he feels as if there’s a vice around his ribcage.

Luke would’ve been 26 this year. The same age Greg was when he married Julia. He wonders at the permanence of grief. He is much better at grieving after all this time but confronted with a child who’s lost her parents, having lost his son becomes an acute irony. Life is just too difficult. When he was the age of the Hulls, he lost his family to a drunk driver. He can’t fathom how the father of such a lovely little girl could take her mother and leave her parentless. He knows it’s not uncommon. He knows there’s every chance that had Darcey not hidden at some crucial moment that she too might be dead this morning.

He hasn't eaten yet and maybe food will help. He shuffles the printouts he's editing into a new case folder. He's logging off his computer when Donovan and Sherlock jostle each other at his door. The pair of frowns that greet him might amuse him any other day. He glares.

Sherlock and Sally speak at the same time as if the other wasn't right there.

“Where is my brother?”

“The caseworker with Darcey wants you.”

“I'm on my way,” Greg tells Sally. He narrows his eyes at Sherlock. “What do you want?” He shoos them both from the doorway and starts down the hall.

“Mycroft isn't at work or at home and isn't returning my calls.” Sherlock follows. “You didn't return my call either. Who is Darcy?”

“I'm working. Go away.” Greg shoves open the interview room door and 35 lbs of little girl barrels into his legs. “Whoa, hey kid.” He chuckles. “What's all this?” The caseworker begins to answer, but Greg holds up a hand. He drops to a knee and lets Darcy burrow into his embrace. “What's all this?” He ruffles her curls and lifts her chin. “How are you?”

“My mom died,” Darcy says. “So I have to go home with you.”

“With me?” Greg glances at the social worker.

“So nothing will hurt me. Da hurt mum and she died. I don't want to die.” Darcy explains.

“Mmmm. ‘Course ya don't.” Greg settles an ill-advised kiss on the curls. “Her aunt?” He asks of the room in general.

Gina Fielding works with Greg's team often enough that they share confidence in one another. She offers him a bemused head shake. “Annie. 20. She's not old enough. She was here until about 10 minutes ago. Annie’s going to get her mother. When she left, Darcy decided she needs to be with you, not me.”

A cryptic conversation follows. They get it sorted that Fielding and Donovan will continue notifying next of kin and locating grandparents or other relatives to take Darcey. Greg agrees with Darcey that she can have some lunch with him - he refuses to think of this as babysitting - and help him with some reading.

Greg leaves the interview room with Darcy’s hand in his only to find Sherlock leaned on the wall of the observation corridor.

“You are a natural security blanket.”

“And you are still here.” Greg can’t get a break today it seems. The two men look at each other, Greg irritated and expectant, Sherlock analyzing and expectant. Greg breaks first. “What do you want, then?”

“I was studying you.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “What?” Darcey tucks herself behind Greg’s legs. “Don’t study me. I need to get some food, Sherlock. Go away.”

Food goes a long way to get Greg’s head back in the game. After they eat, he unearths some kids’ books and crayons from victim services and gets Darcy settled on the floor of his office. He grabs his own paperwork and settles on the floor with her to work. When Darcy curls up, Greg fetches his coat and spreads it out for her. She winds the coat around her, presses to his leg, and sings to herself. Long moments later she falls asleep. There’s something insanely comfortable about having a sleeping baby next to him while he keeps tabs on three investigations and starts in on his staff reviews.

Updates on a child placement normally wouldn’t come through Greg’s office, but when the grandmother arrives and pleads illness, and Darcy refuses to leave his side, he begins asking for information hourly. Donovan brings in fish and chips for supper. Greg and Darcy eat in his office while playing endless rounds of tic tac toe. Darcy catches on quickly and they play to a tie repeatedly while she laughs. In a feat of case management creativity, Fielding arranges for both Darcey and her young aunt to go to a foster home together. It’s easier to hand off his little charge to someone she knows and loves. He doesn’t have a tremendous amount of hope about the immediate future for those two. He makes time to admonish Annie that this is her one chance to be supported for a year and become the person who raises Darcey.

He finally leaves the Yard a little after 10 pm. The chill wet wind takes advantage of his walk to the car to strip off his emotional protective layers. He sinks behind the wheel and closes the car door. The thud connects with something in his gut and the precious reality of happily married, successful law enforcement officer is suddenly not enough to shield the man raised in foster care and widowed at thirty-one from the grief of losing his son. The arms of a five-year-old girl have yanked him back twenty years to the bone-deep ache of losing the chance to parent. He rouses himself from the ennui enough to start the car. Driving always helps calm his tempestuous emotions.   _This, too, shall pass._  He reminds himself. _This will pass, again._ The traitorous part of his mind that is immune to surrender of any kind taunts him tonight, _this might pass, but it’ll be back._  He heads home.

Had Mycroft been here, Greg might have gone home at a reasonable hour. But he isn’t, and he didn’t. He maneuvers through the security of the house and checks in with Sommes, whose expression chides his late hour tonight. He begins shedding clothing at the bedroom door and runs the bath as hot as he can stand.

There are amazing, truly wonderful things about being married to Mycroft Holmes. Greg has given up trying to enumerate or even identify them in any systematic way. In the bathtub though, he is grateful to his soul that his lanky git of a lover relishes life’s finer things and has a soaker tub. The water steams gently, smelling of lavender from the Epsom salts. Greg slides into the water and rests his head back on the tub-pillow anchored to the side of the tub by suction cups. He sighs deeply, breathing away the tension from seventeen hours of work and relaxes into the long familiar aches of grief that’s no longer sharp, but is no less potent for its softness. Water rises to his chin, his feet don’t touch the other side of the tub and the water holds him up in lieu of his best friend and partner as sadness wafts in to replace stress. Awful day. Heat soothes the knots of over-tired muscles, his hair flops into his face and he closes his eyes. Mycroft has been in Kazakhstan for a week. There’ve been no texts or phone calls to ease him through the day or absorb his aches and sorrows. He could call, but Myc’s busy. There was nothing so unusual about the day to merit interrupting whatever summit he’s at just to comfort Greg through a painful case. Still.

“I hoped I’d find you in bed, love.” Mycroft’s voice yanks Greg from the haze of his reverie. He sits up so suddenly water splashes over the lip of the tub. “Myc?”

Mycroft leans low to brush Greg’s mouth with a kiss. He’s in shirtsleeves and his nimble fingers are loosening his tie. He leans on the sink counter and lifts each foot to take off his shoes and socks. No toeing off shoes at that price.

Greg’s toothsome grin goes wide. He’s home. “What’re you doing here? I thought Saturday.”

“I can video conference the last two days of meetings.” Mycroft peels off his shirt and tugs his vest over his head.

Greg forgoes more questions to watch. His husband is gorgeous. Long and pale, lightly furred in reds and auburn, gold freckles everywhere. He is graceful personified, movements quick and efficient. In too little time, his hand is on Greg’s shoulder nudging him forward and Mycroft settles into the tub behind him. Greg leans back on his chest and grips the forearms that embrace him, pull him snug.

“Hello.” Myc’s voice is low in his ear and Greg tilts his head to give access to his neck.

“Hi.” The wash of gratitude brings tears.

“I heard you had something of a day,” Mycroft says. He kisses along Greg’s neck and shoulder. “Thought I’d join you.” He smooths Greg’s hair back from his face, fingers raking gently on his scalp.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmmm.”

“Thank you.” Greg sighs, sinking further into the water, further into the comfort of his lover’s arms.

“Tell me,” Mycroft says.

Greg does. Every detail. Every feeling. Every memory. Mycroft runs the hot water twice to keep the temperature high whilst he listens. He pours water gently over Greg’s shoulders, stroking.

When Greg runs out of words they climb from the tub.

Mycroft wraps his love in a large plush towel, rubbing gently. “You’re a good father. Lord knows I observed you parent my brother despite all his best efforts to evade it.” He scruffs over Greg’s hair. “Loss does not make you less a father once you’ve had a child. You are always Lucas’s father. Every minute of every day. I’m glad you got to exercise that muscle today, if only for a little girl who desperately needed that. I know it hurts sometimes.” His gray eyes are solemn and warm.

Greg leans for another moment before taking up the other towel and joining Mycroft in drying off. He’s here. He’s taught Greg that sadness is not regret, that gratitude for today is not a betrayal of yesterday. Greg suspects they will both sleep well tonight. “Thanks again for coming home.” He kisses Mycroft’s collarbone, up his neck, until he’s kissing his mouth.

“Always.”

“I love you.”

“Mmmm.” Mycroft nuzzles behind Greg’s ear. “I love you, more. Let’s go to bed, mon cœur ”

 


End file.
